On a Wire Stretched Thin
by Ash Gray Kitsune
Summary: He felt like a bow string pulled tight, his senses and emotions and whole life's work focused on one point, fixated, on that one event...and he wondered, for the first time, what it would be like to let go. Clint-centric, ClintxPhil.
1. Chapter 1

Sleep had never been an easy thing for Clint, not in all his thirty-six years. To be honest, the best catnaps he got were probably in his sniper nests, because that edge, that thin line of hair-trigger alert was almost more relaxing than the long stretch of leave he was looking at now. He sighed, wondering if he could get in on demo and recovery, or even training; anything to make him sleep better at night. Especially now...Clint made his way down the hallway in medical, his shoulders taut, his stomach rolling painfully. This would be the first time he visited since the helicarrier...and he had no idea what to expect.

Coulson's 'death' hadn't lasted but a few days, thanks to Stark's hacking, and for once, he was rather thankful for his interference; after the attack on New York, Clint had been raw, broken, lost...and Stark had dragged his drunk ass back to the Tower, set him up in an apartment, and told him to lay low for a couple days. Not three days later, Tony'd come into Clint's new living room, eyes glowing with triumph.

"He's alive." Clint had been in the middle of his eighth beer, had it halfway to his lips, and had it been any other moment, any other person...he'd have said "Bullshit." and downed his booze. But Tony was a different breed from the agents and circus freaks he'd always been used to; Tony wasn't just Iron Man, he was also a kinda decent guy. Kind of an ass, but decent. And Tony didn't lie. Not like.../him/...

"Where?"

"SHIELD. But he's in bad shape, Barton; they've got a lot of work to make him right." Small wonder, that; he'd seen the footage, felt his heart stop dead in his chest, though he'd laughed, weak and broken, when Coulson...Phil, had fired the prototype weapon right into that Asgardian fucker. It was priceless...and barely saved them.

Barely saved him. "...Fury's, well, furious with me, so I suggest we wait till Agent's a little bit more stable to go visit. But he couldn't keep me out forever, and he knew that. He's always known that."

"You hacked SHIELD's servers to find out where Coulson was."

"I've done far worse things for far worse reasons. Besides...I did it on Natasha's request." Clint set the beer down at that, blinking.

"You're actually serious."

"I actually am."

"Holy shit."

"Yup. Look...I know shit's gone all pear-shaped...especially this week from Hell. But New York's still here...Coulson's still alive. The casualities are incredibly light, though we lost a lot of good women and men..." Clint took up the beer again at that, intending to drown out the rest of his sentence, the rest of the whole fucking conversation, when the bottle was yanked out of his hand and forcibly tossed against the wall. He stared at the brown shards in the creamy soft pile, at the stain of dark liquid now marring the light gray wall. Tony looked pissed now, his grin turned into a grim frown, eyes shooting daggers at the archer. Clint wondered when he'd stopped caring. He just shrugged.

"...now you've got beer in your carpeting."

"It's not the first time. Shut down on me like that again, and I'll call Romanoff down here." He did flinch at that, just a little, but those brown eyes caught every movement, and they narrowed. "I mean it. I get it. I do. You were fucked around with so badly that you shouldn't have even been fighting; but you came out anyway. You saved those kids, helped us save the world. You took the knowledge you'd learned while you were enslaved to that jackass and /used/ it against the sons of bitches. I don't know of anyone who's survived that kind of brainwashing, let alone alien brainwashing. But shutting down? That ain't the key to getting yourself through it. You want to rant, to fight, to kick someone's ass? Fuck, I will get drunk with you and join you. You want to help? We will find all the people and places that need a strong arm. You want to cry, to break? We'll put on goddamn Up or Wall-E and we'll all bawl our eyes out. Fuck, I'll even pull up Princess Bride." Tony looked almost desperate now, and some small part of Clint, the part he'd ignored for the last week, piped up a little, making him lift his eyes to Stark's. They were still vacant and lost, but...

He could feel a curl of warmth in his stomach. The good kind. Like when Nat had first tried diner food after defecting, or Coulson made homemade margueritas. The kind that made him remember that there were good people in the world and that he wasn't just a flunky anymore. The kind he never thought he'd feel again. He hadn't realized he could miss something so much.

"...As you wish." A smile broke over Tony's face, and he grinned, just a little.

"That's what I'm talkin' about. Movie night at seven, bring your pillow and jammies. Snacks provided by Steve and Bruce. Booze provided by my liquor cabinet." He'd left after that, taking a beer with him, and Clint had given up on drinking and decided to clean instead; he got most of the beer out of the carpet, and found the shards the hard way, with one foot in the wrong spot. But other than a couple of band-aids and a change into his sweats, he found himself rather comfortably nestled in one of the enormous couches in Stark's den, nursing a very potent glass of whiskey and slowly inhaling the two pounds of puppy chow in the bowl next to him. Natasha had curled herself up around one enormous pillow, her eyes half-lidded and tired, and hadn't complained when Clint had all but nested next to her. Though she did steal his Nutty Bars. The bitch.

"...Tony said you were drinking earlier."

"He's Tony now? You always bitched about Stark this, Stark that."

"That was before."

"Before I led that fucker into the city?"

"Before he fed me and talked Pepper into letting me borrow clean clothes. And take a three hour hot bath. And after Loki dragged you into the helicarrier and tried to make you take the blame for his evil. I spoke to him, Clint. I talked to that monster." Clint's gut dropped, and he shuddered.

"I told him everything about you..."

"You told him nothing. He ripped it from you. There's a difference...He was going to kill me using you. And then kill you afterwards, after you'd come out of that spell. He thought us lovers..." Clint glanced at her, faintly in shock.

"...He didn't...see Coulson?"

"Evidently not. And really, Barton, the thought of you killing me is amusing at best." She snorted, curling her lip in distaste at Loki's presumption, and he found himself laughing, his voice cracking. "And the thought of us being lovers...pah, the fool." He doubled over wheezing, and slim finger carded through his hair, calming him enough to breathe. "...And besides. You were fighting him. You were fighting him /hard/. Hill could see it, and she's despised you for years. Fury never once blamed you; in fact, it was he who authorized changing your priority to 'Immediate Recovery'. All of the agency was looking for you. Because they, my dear partner, knew who you were. You were the guy who shot a bow and quoted Blazing Saddles; the guy who made gumbo and cornbread and bitched about college football. You were the trainer who was always patient, always encouraging...

"The person behind your eyes during that week was not that man. It was Loki and his power. We all saw how hard you were fighting; if you'd wanted to, you could have taken us down so easily that we'd have never had a chance to see that bolt coming. You could have killed me in moments. If, and only if, you'd truly wanted to. Instead, you pulled every punch, every shot. Did you know, the guards that were removed in Germany? Only one died; he was shot by one of the flunkies. The man whose eye was needed? He's half blind now, but your speed kept him alive. That was Loki's doing. Not yours."

"I still..."

"You still fought on. With no rest, no food, and no chance to even pause, you fought him. That's how I was able to knock you out. That's how I was able to get you free. Because you are a good man, and you fought him off like a caged hawk, all talons and beak." He winced a little, but let the subject go for the time being.

"Okay, okay...let's...just watch the movie, okay?"

"Alright." That was nearly three months ago now; he swallowed, clutching his pass in one hand like a talisman. And maybe it was. In that time, they'd had a hell of a lot of work to make things better. He, Cap, and Bruce had worked the streets, while Tony and Natasha had done the press and corporate circuit, working hard to get money and supplies for those still without power, food, water. He'd gotten through the nightmares, the sorrow, the pain by working himself to the bone every day, and sleeping deep every night with a handful of pills and the occasional drive-by cuddle from Natasha. But...this foray was different. Far different. And he was terrified beyond belief.

He paused at the final desk before Coulson's room, offering up his fingerprints, retina, and pass. The nurse looked bored, and she waved him through with a stern reminder that visiting hours were over in forty-five minutes. He nodded, a little too fast and a little too much, but went on down, his motorcycle boots squeaking on the clean white floors.

Coulson's door loomed in front of him, steel and painted white wood, a neat placard on the front with his room number and agent ID. 78640002. A number he'd had in his head for a long, long time...he ought to know it, after all. He'd called it out too many times, searched for it...and now...his hand rose, almost unwilling, and knocked lightly on the door. There was a pause, a long, pregnant pause, and the door cracked open, darkness deep beyond. He swallowed, and rough, cracking fingers touched the door knob...

It swung open into a dark, empty room, and his brow furrowed, confusion masking the sudden spike of fear in his heart.

"Phil?" His own voice echoed softly in the quiet, and he stumbled back, hardly realizing that he'd half-fallen against a bigger man, and strong arms caught him, held him enough so that he could get his feet under him...and he floundered, spinning in half-anger, half-fear. "You-"

"Me. Agent, I had no choice."

"You could have...could have told me he was really..."

"He's in Tahiti." Clint blinked behind his ruby lenses, the sunglasses hardly masking his dumbfounded expression as Fury sighed, looking older than he had in a long time. This shit with New York, it'd fucked everything up...and this was no different. But...what the fuck did he mean by /Tahiti/? The medical stronghold he knew about was outside of Munich!

"Wait a sec...Tahiti?!"

"What, you've been there too, especially after Budapest. We just kept your dumb ass sedated." He stared, then threw up his hands and growled right back at Fury, annoyed now, rather than upset. Of course Phil was somewhere else...he couldn't be that damn lucky, ever.

"What the hell, sir?!"

"What do you mean, what the hell?! I came down here to let you know!"

"And you couldn't have told me that /before/ I fuckin' worked myself into knots?"

"My apologies, I had the World Council to deal with."

"You coulda left a note!" Fury glared at him, Clint glared right back, and finally, Fury sighed.

"...Okay, fine, I could have left a note. You're right...but I had no idea you were coming down till the security clearances popped up. And to be honest, I thought Stark had told you already." Clint settled back on his heels, arms crossed over his chest, and the muscles flexed as his shoulders tightened.

"So Tony knew?"

"I would assume so, he knows everything else, save for what's not been put into the computer network." He sighed and rubbed his one good eye, scars marking the darker tone of his skin. Clint had always admired those hands, partly because they were so like his; that was really what had persuaded him to join the agency; hands like his, that had dealt death and life in equal measures. Phil's hands, Hill's hands, Nat's hands...all of them, all of them had worked hard in their lives to get here, to be here.

And that was what he used when he trained the newbies, the juniors, the fresh meat out of school and off the streets. Straight-laced perfectionists and freaks like he'd once been...he'd trained them all, taught them all, shown them their weaknesses and helped them discover their strengths. A little pride sparked at that, and his chin lifted, eyes growing calmer, little by little. This...this he knew. And he knew well.

"Still, I would have appreciated the heads up, sir."

"...I know. And for that, I do apologize. I had no desire to keep you separated from Phil, but he wasn't doing too well here, and well..."

"You lost him once already."

"Four times, actually. The first eight seconds was terrifying, the first minute was fuckin' heart-stopping. He wasn't healing well, and so we had to find another solution." Clint swallowed, his eyes quiet.

"And that solution was...?"

"Asgardian healing." That sound must have been his stomach falling through the floor, and Clint felt himself sway, mouth dry.

"You...you called on.../them/..."

"On Thor's mother Frigga, yes, and a whole group of healers. They did what we couldn't do. They got him stabilized and alive. Last report I had from the Shell was half an hour ago, and he was starting to regain consciousness." Fury sighed and pulled out a small tablet, pulling up the report and handing it to Clint to survey. Clint cradled the small device and flicked through the files, pushing his glasses up to rest in his hair. After a few moments, he handed the tablet back, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"He's going to be having problems for a long time, isn't he."

"For a little while. But they predict a full recovery, with no long-withstanding health issues." Clint looked up at him now, his eyes quiet.

"How do you know for sure?"

"...I don't. I don't have an answer for that, nor do I have an answer for the other questions I know you're going to have. But I do know this. Phil Coulson is alive, Agent Barton; he's alive, and he'll come back to serve and protect once more. And hell, I'll fund his homecoming party and Stark can provide the booze." Clint cracked a smile at that, just a thin one, but definitely a smile, and Fury outright grinned, clapping him gently on the shoulder. "And for what it's worth, Clint, I'm glad you're back too." He blinked, an uncharacteristic flush going over his cheeks, mostly because of embarrassment.

"I...didn't do anything special, sir..."

"You survived, Agent. And you came back battered, and broken, but then again, who isn't here? We're all broken toys the world didn't want anymore."

"I..."

"I wouldn't have given that order if I didn't believe you wouldn't come back. You, the best marksman in the world, fucked up a headshot. You broke your own damn record shooting me in the vest. That's when I knew your sorry ass was still in there. So stop getting all mopey and shit, and help us rebuild this city...do that, and I'll get him back earlier for you. Disobeying direct orders too, mind you." His mouth opened, though whether it was to thank him or tell him he was fucking insane, he wasn't sure. Fury just waved him off. "Just go do something physical and feel good and crap. You need it more than you think." Well, there was some truth to that statement, he supposed...and he watched as the Director stalked off. Maybe he was right. Just maybe.


	2. Chapter 2

He drew the bow string back with a soft sigh, nocking an arrow with an equally soft intake of his breath. There was a half-second of a pause, where all the thoughts and dreams and nightmares pushed into the forefront of his mind, crowding his senses, his heart rate spiking, and he closed his eyes, just a little...

And let go.

The arrow flew true, as it always did, as they always had. Even in the circus, when he was first learning, he'd nailed the target every time. Maybe not the bulls-eye, sure, but he damn well nailed the target. He was always in the red, even then. And he'd only been a boy then, just on the cusp of adulthood, and already far more adult than any kid should be. With Trickshot and Barney and the Swordsman...he sighed and brushed his hair back, looking at the world through a ruby red glow. The sunglasses were a present from Nat, after he'd mentioned how badly the glare off of the cars and the buildings had fucked up his vision and his aim during the battle; 'red helps eliminate glare', she'd told him, all but tossing him the case. They were sleek and close cut, and fit like his archery glove; he'd given her shit about the hue, but really, they did help. And they hid his eyes, which, given their usual dark circles and red scleras, was no bad thing. The only downside was the drop in his peripheral vision, but he'd heard Sitwell come onto the range ten minutes ago, so he didn't even blink as he reached for another arrow.

"Hey, Sitwell."

"Hey, Clint. I brought that second batch of test arrows from R&D."

"Awesome, thanks. Any special instructions?" He switched out his settings on his bow and shifted to the new quiver, shouldering it with a bit more ease. Huh, they'd fixed that problem with the straps; excellent, it meant he could focus on his fight and not have to worry about his ammo.

"Nope, they're all flat tips and broad heads; the new part is the fletching and-"

"Oooh, new composite~! Remind me to tell Harris he's a fuckin' genius." He grinned up at Jasper, and was a little surprised to see the man grinning back. Jasper'd taken Phil's death and resurrection pretty badly, and Clint still wasn't quite kosher with Fury's decision to leave most of the agency in the dark. But he wasn't the one in charge, and let's be honest, that was a damned good thing. He surveyed the new arrows and whistled lightly, running a thumb down the cool length. "But damn, these are pretty. Thanks, Jas, this is a hell of an improvement. How's your department doing?"

"We're doing alright...thanks for bucking over on that intel-mission in Rhode Island last week."

"No prob, I owed you anyway. How's Rutgars by the way?"

"He came around yesterday; the Chitauri left some weird crap behind, I'll tell you that."

"You're telling me. Shrapnel from the weapons and the critters still gets Bio called out daily."

"I know. So, I guess you haven't heard the news?" Clint cocked his head a little, confused , and Jasper gave him a warm smile. "I figured not, the logs said you've been down here all day. Phil's back in at Level Seven, and he's leading a new team. I'm pretty happy myself, because really, he'd needed this..." A roaring filled his ears as Clint processed that last part, eyes wide behind ruby lenses, and he felt his face go pale under his tan. Jasper clearly was too excited to notice, so Clint gave him back the new arrows and a half-assed apology, taking off at a lope towards the weapons locker to put up his bow. From there, he beelined to the main command center, bursting through the doors with a shaky breath...and only Hill met him, her massive desk covered in paperwork.

"Where's Phil-"

"He's already on the Bus, Agent Barton." He blinked, discomfited, and she shuffled over another stack of paper.

"The Bus...?"

"It's a mobile air unit. He'll be stationed there for the next year or so, working through cases of a more publicly sensitive nature than what our main command is used to."

"But...why didn't..."

"If he didn't come to see you after his return, Barton, then that's something you're going to have to take up with him. When he comes back. Otherwise, you're shit out of luck. Now, if you don't mind...?" He flushed, anger and shame flooding through him, and backed out, hopping into the first vent he recognized and making his silent way through the whole of headquarters. He wanted to scream, to kick, to beat the shit out of something, but as he dropped down into the parking garage, he realized the only thing he wanted to do right now as run. As far and fast as he fucking could. He made it to his car without anyone noticing, and he made his way out, flashing his pass and taking off out of the gate. As he drove, he was so thankful that he'd spoiled himself with his one lone expensive purchase; a beautiful 1969 Mustang, rebuilt from the wheels up by his own two hands. He'd painted it a pretty soft blue with a navy stripe, and black and navy upholstry that was sinfully soft. And he already had a suitcase readied in his trunk, so he stopped long enough to shovel down a greasy hot dog and gas up, then he was on his way out. As a precaution, he called Nat.

"...where are you, Clint?" Her voice was quiet, almost sad, and he sighed, pulling over to the side. He wasn't stupid enough to drive with an upset Natasha in his ear.

"...I'm heading out of town for a while, Nat."

"I thought so. Mind a little company?" He quirked an eyebrow at that, his surprise plain.

"Thought you preferred to work alone."

"Yeah...that was before Tony dropped today's bombshell on me."

"...Sitwell got me."

"At least you had a friend there. Look, I...I'll meet you out by Dunkirk." Dunkirk? Hell, it'd take him all day to get there...but he didn't question her, didn't even blink.

"Bring whiskey, and I'll buy the room."

"I'll bring vodka and agreed." He would have made a face, but she sounded hurt...and Natasha didn't sound like that very often. So, he just rolled with the punches and turned onto the highway, heading due west. The hours passed in a faint stupor as he sang with old country and rock, tap-tapping at his steering wheel and keeping a weather eye out for anyone who might be looking for him. Natasha would have made his excuses to the Avengers for him; that much, he didn't feel too worried about, and as for SHIELD...Fury had to have at least expected this from one or the both of them. Especially because Strike Team Delta hadn't seen hide nor hair of their handler, and that...didn't sit too well with Clint. He let the highway lull him into that alert numbness he usually carried when he was out in a nest, holed up for days, weeks, months...patience and boredom and a slow burn of a thrill keeping his heart slow, his aim steady, and his fingers ever ready.

That was better than facing the snake's nest of emotions in his mind and soul. He'd tried, so fucking hard, just to heal...to rise above what had been done. He'd fought the depression and the self-hate just as much as he fought the bad guys sliding out of the woodwork, just as hard and as often. And dammit, he was sick of feeling like a fuck up. Sure, he barely had a high school education and couldn't fuckin' spell a goddamn thing, but he was the best marksman in the world. And he didn't need anyone to tell him that, though so many did, and he sure as hell didn't need anyone to make him out to be some special fuckin' snowflake. He just wished he didn't feel like it was his heart that had gotten stabbed by the staff, rather than Phil's. Or maybe...maybe it would have been better to let the man die. Because if he hadn't even said good bye...

What if he didn't remember him and Nat? What if...he didn't remember any of them at all?

He suppressed the instinctive shudder, and let the road lull him back, embracing that numbness with fervor. He never wanted to stop driving.

* * *

"You're late."

"Fuck you."

"Later. Feed me first, asshole." Natasha looked exhausted and windblown, and he winced a little at the small bike she must have ridden like a hellion to get here on. He was just opening the door when she pushed inside, falling face first onto the nearer of the two beds and tossing two bottles onto the safety of his. He had to smile a little, and he closed the door, locking both the deadbolt and the smaller lock and stripping off his shirt. He was rank from his practice on the grounds, and she didn't care if he got naked; they'd seen each other buck ass nude so many times that it didn't phase either of them. She gave an obvious sniff, muffled in a pillow, and he rolled his eyes.

"I know, I smell. I'm gonna shower, you wanna order take out?" He said quietly, tossing his wallet close to her hand and stripping off his tac pants and boots.

"Yeah, sure...hey, Clint?" He paused, half-way bared to her as he shucked his boxers off. She rolled over, looking up at him, her tee shirt rucked up a little, her pants hanging off her hips. She looked cute and sexy...and she was more a sibling to him than Barney had ever been.

"Yeah?"

"...Can I sleep next to you tonight?" She closed her eyes as she said that, worrying her lip and he smiled.

"Yeah. Kick me out of it, though, and there will be words, Romanoff." Natasha gave a huff of a laugh, and he grinned, stalking into the tiny bathroom. "Very vile words. In at least three damned languages. And flush the toilet on me, and you'll hear a lot more of them!" He called, earning himself a husky laugh that made this just a little bit better. Yeah...he could do this. He could make it.

* * *

The mornings dawned quiet, the nights drew to a silent close, and both agents just relaxed for a change, healing from the scars neither of them had been willing to admit to. Scars of the heart, of the soul; Clint still woke from the nightmares, Natasha's gentle, tiny hands holding his head as he thrashed. He hadn't hurt her yet, not through the long chain of motels they'd been staying at, though, and he was thankful. They ate greasy diner food and take out, stopping only to gas up and sleep, and they wandered all up and down the East Coast, no real destination in mind, just certain places to be sure to avoid. They talked, slow, halting, and just a touch jaded, but she never asked of Loki and the blue haze that had turned his life and world upside down.

He, in turn, never so much as hinted at the talk between the insane god and his partner; that was Natasha's choice whether to share it, and since she hadn't yet...well. He might not have been the brightest crayon in the box, but he wasn't that fuckin' dumb. Besides, this was nice...they played the tourists, the brother and sister who needed to just get away. And the best part, they weren't even really lying about why they'd left New York; everyone they met sympathized with their jobs being all messed up by the invasion of the Chitauri and the PTSD from being in the heat of the battle. It was...nice. Nice to just be normal, boring people who didn't have the weight of the world on their shoulders. Which was, in hindsight, probably the worst idea, because they got relaxed, complacent...and if they hadn't added alcohol to the mix, he might have noticed the guys tailing them both.

"Hey, baby doll, wanna come party with us?" The warmth of the bar seemed to receded as the thug draped himself over Tasha's shoulder, and Clint, who was on the other side of the pool table from her, tightened his grip on his cue, eyes narrowing as he sobered instantly. Natasha, on the other hand, swayed a little, her eyes unfocused, and his eyes widened at the amount of booze she'd consumed; she was no lightweight, but even her enhanced physique couldn't take the six large empty bottles of vodka without a few effects. He hadn't really been paying too much attention, they'd been laughing too much...and now he leaned over the table as she looked around blearily, her reactions so shot to hell he nearly winced.

"Look, man, we're not here to really party, and I gotta get my sister back home." The dumbass tossed him a sneer and wrapped an arm around Tasha's waist, tugging her close to him, and Clint went over the many, many ways he could break that particular limb in his head before sighing. "C'mon, man, I'll buy you and your boys a round..."

"Buy us a round with your sister, and we'll call it even, fucknut." The guy retorted, and Clint just sighed.

"Dude, hate to break it to you, but you just made her mad." Natasha's head had whipped around, her glazed eyes slowly darkening with rage as her lip lifted in a feral snarl. It wasn't too terribly often that she actually got pissed off; murderously, viciously /pissed/. Which was why it was so amusing to see the look on the douchebag's face go from cocky to utterly terrified in .09 seconds. It was a new record, he thought idly, as he came around the pool table and none so gently removed the fucker's hand, pulling Natasha back as she started to actually sober up. "Now look, let's just all forget this happened, I buy you a round of beers, and you don't so much as look in her direction. Deal?"

He didn't actually see the fist that went for his face; he'd already ducked when Natasha launched herself off of the table with a yowl of rage, and he'd just come up swinging as the whole bar erupted into a maelstrom of fists and swearing yells. From what he could see as he waded through the sea of assholes, Nat was more than holding her own, though the shrieking was a new thing; he supposed it was the vodka. Oh well, she was just beating the dumbass over the head with an empty bottle, so he just gathered up her coat and his and hooked an arm around her waist as he passed, popping her up onto his shoulder. Getting out was...interesting, but he managed to get past an annoyed bouncer and out into the darkness, shifting Tasha up a little more, when...

"Bleeeeeeeeagh." Fuck.

"You just puked down my back, didn't you."

"...Yeah. Kinda." He sighed, wincing as the wetness and the smell permeated his shirt and jeans, and just kept walking. "I'm sorry...?"

"You are buying me new clothes."

"Yeah."

"And I'm stealing your wallet to buy food."

"Okay."

"...are you going to puke again?"

"Probably."

"Goddammit, Romanoff."


	3. Chapter 3

Clint stepped into the hot shower at long last, Natasha out cold on his bed and mostly cleaned up, and his ruined clothes already bagged up and tossed outside. He sighed and half-drowned himself in the steam and the heat, groaning a little bit. Wrigley, Pennsylvania wasn't a bad down, but he was ready to shake the dust from his boots...when he heard the far off explosion. He paused, ducking his head out of the shower, eyes narrowed. That was...strange. He dragged himself out of the shower finally and got dressed, and as he locked up, he sighed at the rising sun. "Goddammit...another night without sleep."

But he was ever the agent, and he drove towards the explosion, his eyes narrowing as he made out a SHIELD van in the midst of the cop cars. As he pulled up a little way away, he sat back and watched, curious...when Phil stepped out of the van, and his heart stopped. He looked /good/; so good. So goddamn good. And when did it get hard to breathe in here? He swallowed his loneliness, the bitter anger, and just...looked. His new team was young, but good; he'd always liked Ward, and Fitz and Simmons were interesting kids, and the new girl looked excited and busy tapping at her computer...and was that May? Holy fuck, he really had gotten first pick of this team.

But there was a very conspicuous absence. Natasha, and him. One that he could see May felt...but Phil...seemed not to notice. That hurt...more than he'd realized it could, and he bit a little at a hangnail, absently tearing the skin and nail apart with his teeth as he watched them survey the scene. He couldn't see much past all the police cars, but there wasn't much to see, anyway; he flipped over his scanner and listened, the jargon strangely soothing for a change. He was used to flipping through the frequencies; it was how he survived out on a stake-out, and listening to the low thrum of voices kept him from thinking too much...too late, he realized he'd torn his thumb open, and he cursed fluidly, dropping a heavy hand to his glove compartment to rifle through for a bandage...

"He does remember you, you know." May's voice, soft and sincere, made him freeze, and slowly, he turned to face where she was leaning against his car, back to him. "He really does. But this...Fury needs this more than he realizes. And Phil...wanted to make sure you were healed." Clint choked a little.

"Healed? How the fuck can I heal if...?"

"You've been healing, haven't you." It wasn't a question, and he clenched his fingers, partly to stop the blood, partly because it was true. "You've done all that SHIELD and the Avengers have asked, and you've been healing. You're slowly putting what Loki's done behind you, and you aren't letting it break you. You could have; no one in their right mind would have blamed you for breaking, Barton. But you haven't. You're up and rolling and training and /fighting/. And to be frank, that takes more than most SHIELD agents have."

"But...Phil..."

"Phil has to heal too. From his own demons...and his own losses. He chose this, unwisely, in my opinion, because he wanted to give you space, and time. And like I've been telling him, he's a moron." Her voice was sardonic and rich, and he smiled a little, against his own anger. May never did stand for stupid...

"So, how'dja put up with me?"

"Because you aren't an idiot, Barton, just a hopeless romantic. There's a very real difference there. And I read the reports from Fury and Hill; you went out of your way to make yourself useful and allow SHIELD to bring Coulson back to life. You didn't badger, didn't hassle...and this whole time, you've been really working to protect the people you serve, one way or another. So when the word came in that you'd gone to ground with Tasha, I figured we'd see you at some point. In fact, I was surprised you didn't find us sooner." She turned now, dark eyes on his, and he sighed, smoothing the bandage over his finger.

"...To be honest, we weren't searching you out. We just...we needed space to breathe. You understand that." A swift nod, because of all people, she did; she always had. "And Nat and I figured, well, we'd just...drive till the gas gauge went to E, gas up, drive till we got hungry. Be tourists, be regular people, be faces in a crowd. Be forgotten. For just a little while."

"Be normal." His eyes shut and he nodded, quiet now. "...I'm glad." He looked up at her now, confused, and she knelt beside the car door, her eyes soft and gentle. May had been Coulson's partner, much like Natasha had been his, for a long, long time, and when Clint and Phil had started going out, Clint had been terrified that May wouldn't have taken it well... "Clint, you've needed that. I'm glad you're out of the field and just...living. You, of all people, you both deserve that. And I'll tell you what; we're stationed at the local airfield. Bring Natasha and a couple of six packs for dinner, and I'll see to it that you have a chance to see him. Deal?" Clint smiled, just a little, and nodded.

"Deal. You still drinking that Blue Moon shit?" She grinned, sharp and alive and he grinned back.

"You still downing that Miller Light horsecrap?"

"You know it."

"So you know my answer. See you at eighteen hundred hours, birdbrain."

"See you then, Cavalry." She groaned and he laughed, for the first time in what felt like ages, really laughed, and took off, his whole being humming with joy. He was gonna see Phil tonight...and he was gonna be okay.

* * *

Reflecting back on the morning's events, Clint was thankful that Natasha had still been asleep when he'd gotten the call. May had sent him a quick message, barely a minute long, her voice tense and angry, and he closed his eyes. The beers went right back into their refrigerated shelves and he just picked up groceries instead, feeling the cold, sinking feeling of depression coil in his stomach. God, he missed Phil like a limb, like his bow, and the feeling only intensified, knowing that they were halfway across the Atlantic at this point. At least May had let him know; he had time to shake off the sickening fear and unhappiness before he went back to the hotel room. Tasha had still been sleeping when he'd left; odd, now that he thought about it, but she'd not really slept much since New York.

No one had, really. He sighed and grabbed a few more things, then made his way to the register, smiling absently at the girl behind the counter. She looked stiff and rather cold, and in spite of his own feelings, his instincts registered the way her hands were shaking, how it took a few passes to ring up the right items, and he relaxed his body, already reading the environment around him. There were two...no, three guys behind him, all of them perusing the shelves, and all of them with eyes on the register, and the girl. She must have been threatened before he came in; her lip was bitten so badly it was near bleeding, and she was pale. He cursed himself for letting his edge slip, and he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Now one guy, the one behind him, was moving up as he pulled his wallet out, and Clint's smile turned feral. Oh good. The fucker had a gun. The flick of the safety being slid off was all the cue he needed; he reached forward, shoved the girl down, and spun, eyes wild and dangerous behind ruby-tinted lenses, and his foot took out the gun and probably broke the little pissant's hand, leaving him howling on the floor, and he kept his momentum going. He crashed into the second man's torso with a well orchestrated shoulder and gut punch; he smirked as he heard the choking sound, and tossed him bodily into the shelving unit. He guessed the third one was the least bright; rather than run towards the entrance, which was a hell of a lot closer and escaping the falling shelves, he ran towards the back and Clint didn't feel the least bit sorry for him when the big racks finished toppling over, pinning him under steel and Fritos.

"...Sorry about the mess, miss." He muttered, running a hand through his hair. The adrenaline spike wasn't as prolonged, and now he just felt damned guilty...but as he picked up the gun and tore it apart with practiced hands, she slowly pulled herself up, shaking all over like a leaf now.

"N-no...thank you...they...they were..."

"Gonna rob you? And probably do worse. Hey, I...really can't be here when the cops come. And...I'd appreciate not having a description given of me." Her eyes widened, growing fearful, and he waved his hands, setting the gun parts neatly on the counter, glad for his gloves.

"Please, I promise I'm not some crazy ass killer. I'm just...I've got people higher than me that pay me a lot of money to stay hidden." She calmed now, eyes softening.

"...Witness protection?"

"Something similar. I promise, I...I'm not gonna be a dick or anything, but..."

"No, no...thank you. Thank you for saving me." He felt his lips curve up in a smile, and nodded, paying her quite a bit more than he owed for the groceries, but it'd help cover the mess of food now littering the floor.

"You're welcome...I'm just sorry I'm leaving you with a mess." She shook her head, and waved for him to go.

"It'll be okay. You better go, mister, before the cops finish getting here. Good luck!" He grinned and slipped out the door, disappearing into the growing shadows as the black and whites showed up, sirens wailing. He probably should have just gone out the door and left, but...well. He wasn't that kind of guy. Never had been...probably never would be. He smiled to himself, feeling some of the unhappiness and depression in his heart fade. Maybe he wouldn't have Phil tonight. Or the next night, or the night after that. But he would have company, in the form of a sleepy redhead with a deep, sickening love for pork rinds and salsa, and he had the satisfaction of knowing that at least one young woman was safe tonight.

At least one person he'd helped would be okay.

And that was enough for him. For now, it was enough

* * *

"So, how was the dust-up at the Seven Eleven?" Natasha's voice was rather bored, and he rolled his eyes as he shouldered the door open.

"Ha, ha. Since you were asleep, Aurora, I just went shopping. And it was fine, the little brats got arrested."

"You gave a statement?"

"I kicked their asses, paid up, and left."

"Mmph, figured. Didn't think you were that stupid." He would have looked affronted, but with her, this was nearly a compliment, so he just tossed her the pork rinds, grimacing as she grinned wickedly.

"You and your gassy foods."

"Shut the hell up, I've slept with you when you were filling the room with toxic gas." He wagged a finger at her face and mock-growled.

"That was due to a goddamn crazy ass scientist, and I was also hallucinating and nearly choked on my own tongue, thank you very much. I do not seek out foods that leave my intestines and stomach staging a mutiny."

"Suit yourself, you're missing out."

"Crazy ass Russian."

"Dumbass American." He sighed and put away the other food, taking out the small deal of oatmeal he'd picked up and going to the coffee pot for hot water. Natasha grimaced at him. "Oatmeal? Seriously?"

"Fuck you, I like oatmeal."

"I should start calling you Grandpa Birdbrain."

"Blame Steve, he got me onto it that first week. Homemade's better, of course..." Natasha shrugged and settled back against the pillows, crunching the greasy rinds with a fervor that was nearly obscene. "Anyway, other than that quick jaunt down, nothing else's been happening. Though we might want to change out the oil in the car soon, we're already over five thousand miles." She licked her fingers and dug through her bag to pull out the Oreos.

"Mmm, just have a shop do it?"

"Probably for the best. It's been a long time since I've changed oil in a car that's A. new, B. not riddled with bullet holes, and C. not under heavy fire. And fuck it, we have the spare cash."

"Alright, I can suss out a nearby shop in the morning, since you did the shopping tonight."

"Thanks, Nat." She nodded as he came to settled beside her, sniffing appreciatively at the scent of apples and cinnamon. "Nuh uh, mine, you redheaded she-devil." She pouted and he rolled his eyes, shouldering her back over to her side of the bed. "No bringing work to bed. And for that matter, no bringing work to my bed when you puked on me the night before." She had the grace to wince at that, and he swallowed a hot spoonful, relaxing as it soothed the cold lump sitting in his belly.

"Sorry about that..."

"...It's okay. But it's not like you to get that drunk; the last time was Budapest." Oh yeah, she remember /that/ one, and he spooned a little more of the hot cereal into his mouth, thinking as he swallowed. "What's got you rattled, redbird?" She smiled, just a little, at the nickname, and brushed her hair back. It was growing longer, and she was straightening it now; he liked her hair no matter what it looked like, but this was new, different, more mature looking. She looked less the sex kitten now, and more like the take-charge agent he knew her to be. And that was perfectly fine with him. To be honest, as cute as the curls and waves were, they made her out to be little more than a toy; with her hair like this, her eyes focused, and her make up so light to be near invisible...well, she showed how competent she really was now.

Even if she was stuffing her face with Oreos and a half-gallon of milk.

"Were you raised in a goddamn barn?"

"Fuck you, Iowa."

* * *

The phone ringing had him up and halfway awake in seconds, Natasha almost before that, and he answered it with his mission voice, firm, no nonsense, and steady.

"Barton." There was a soft hiss over the phoneline, and Clint very nearly snarled, then Fury's voice, worn and tired, came over the line.

"Barton. I need you and Romanoff on the road in ten minutes. We have a plane waiting for you at the airfield."

"Sir?"

"Sitwell's meeting you there. This isn't a pleasure jaunt, Barton..."

"Sir, with all due respect, we'd like to know what we're getting into."

"...I'll explain on the plane. I promise." Clint's teeth grit, and Natasha, already dressed and ready, held out her hand for the phone. He tossed it over and yanked on his jeans, boots, and jacket; thankfully, his weapons were in place and ready to go, and there wasn't much to toss in the suitcases and pack. He left a tip for the maid as Natasha got their specs and let Fury go, and tossed both suitcases outside, gathering up their things will-he, nill-he. He'd be annoyed later that her straightener would end up tangled in his bowstrings, but at this point, he was more concerned about the mission at hand. He'd hoped that May would call him back, give him a bit of an update as to when they'd be stateside again, but if they were going on a mission...well...

Goddammit, he hated his job sometimes.

"How long to the airport?"

"Five minutes, if you drive." He smiled, grim and dangerous, and let her slip in as he got behind the wheel...and really, at least in this case, she was right. He took off with a squeal of rubber and concrete, and they must have been flagged, because he tore past three cops and a sheriff, and not a one even tried to give chase. Then again, he wasn't weaving between cars; no, he just tore down the passing lane and made it there just in time. As they took in the enormous plane waiting, the SHIELD logo in silver on the black tail, he shrugged and drove on into the plane itself, parking next to the SUV and slipping out. It was a relief to see Sitwell standing there, and he helped Clint secure the Mustang's wheels and hook everything in place as the ramp started to rise, shutting them off from the outside.

"What's the mission, Jasper?" His eyes looked concerned behind those wire frames, and Sitwell started to speak, when the monitor on the back wall came to life, and Director Fury surveyed them, his lone eye dark and solemn.

"We have two missions, actually. One is a confirmed sighting of the Winter Soldier." Out of the corner of Clint's eye, he wasn't surprised to see Natasha stiffen, her focus honing on that one name. "Agent Romanoff, I would like you to return to New York to look into this for us. You have more history with this man than any other agent of SHIELD...I would like you to work with Captain Rogers."

"Sir." Her tone held a question in it, and Fury did not disappoint.

"Agent Barton is going to have his own mission on this one, Romanoff, and will not be able to join you. Agent Barton." His back straightened, hands clasped behind him, feet slightly spread, and Fury's eye held something now that Clint...couldn't identify readily. Was that...sympathy?

"Agent Barton, I need you to track another sniper."

"All due respect, sir, it would be easier to do both at the same time."

"Ordinarily, yes. But this one...I thought this one would be better suited to you. And your talents." The comprehension was dawning now, and Clint swallowed the fear inside him.

"Sir...please do not tell me..."

"Yes, Agent. I need you to find Trickshot."


	4. Chapter 4

Trickshot. His master in the craft, the only man who might possibly know more uses for an arrow than Clint himself. And that had come with experience and necessity, not all the natural talent Clint himself possessed. For that was the one and only reason that Hawkeye was a greater archer than his master; the combination of the right reflexes, the right eyes, and the right mindset. It made him a terrifying sniper, with any projectile weapon, and a tenacious enemy...He read over the mission specs, the outright murders from high above, stretching across New York State and Pennsylvania, and if the clues were right, he was heading further west.

"Fuck."

"My thoughts exactly. Clint..."

"I know, Jasper. Taking Tasha to New York?"

"Yeah...you're going in alone, you know that, right?" Clint's eyes lifted, meeting the older agent's, and Sitwell's expression looked almost mournful. It was a death sentence, but if he didn't take it, more would die. More /had/ died, and Clint couldn't just let that lie.

"I'm the only one who can track him. Who he'll let track. He'd be insulted if y'all sent anyone else. No, I...I know. Thanks for dropping me off."

"Any time. Do you...need anything?" There was a world of responses to that question, and Clint knew, without hesitation, that short of world domination, he could ask, and get, anything. In an hour, maybe two, he could have Phil by his side for one last night, could drink and screw and eat his fool head off. And when he'd first come on board...he would have demanded that, and more.

Not this time.

"...I need you to deliver a letter. And I need those new composites."

"Done, and done. We're landing you around Pittsburgh in an hour."

"I know. That's just enough time to do this right." With that, he disappeared into the small room he'd been offered, settled himself on the bed, and pulled out a simple Steno pad and a pen. It was going to be misspelled and pathetic, and let's be honest, probably hard to understand, but it was him, all him...and if Phil still loved him, he'd look past all of that and see Clint in the words, in the chicken scratch he called writing.

It took him nearly the full hour, and he poured out his heart, his soul, every ounce of him he could muster, because there was no going back. There hadn't been, he mused, since that day the Swordsman had beaten the absolute shit out of him and left him to die...And Trickshot, he hadn't lifted a finger to stop him. But now...now, he had something to live for.

And to die for. He tore off the half-dozen pages or so and folded them neatly, marveling a little bit at how steady his hands were. Had this been fifteen, twenty years ago, he would have been terrified, dropping shit everywhere and faltering and rethinking things...now, he just stayed the course, tucking the yellow pages into the spare envelope Jasper had left him and sealed it. All he wrote on the top was P.J. Coulson, smiling a little as he stroked the letters. He pressed the envelope to his lips, a benediction from a lost sinner, a prayer he was still too jaded to say, and left it on the desk for Jasper to pick up. He pocketed his car keys and shouldered his dual quivers, his bow a familiar, soothing weight in his hand.

It was the bow Phil had given him, a year ago now, not the collapsible one Loki had...acquired, but a longbow, as perfect a curve as any he'd ever held before. Coulson never had said where it came from, but Clint's suspicions were ranging towards Stark; Tony always had had an appreciation for weaponry that wasn't necessarily all technology and computers and such...But that was behind him now. He had his weapon, his ammo, and his car; he needed nothing else. As he made his way to the hold, Natasha was already suited up in her own armor; nice jeans and a tan jacket, and on an impulse, he wrapped her into a huge bearhug, burying his face in her hair. Rather than push him away or toss him off, she just hugged him back; that nearly broke him right there, and he took a breath of lily-scented red hair.

"...Leave me, birdbrain, and I'll hunt you down." Her voice cracked, just a little, and Clint laughed, low and lost and sad.

"Gonna give you a run for your money, Red." He whispered back, and her tiny hands clutched his tac jacket, pulling the tough material taut.

"You better." She pulled away, her green eyes shimmering, and he cupped her face, touching his forehead to hers. "You..."

"I'll come home, Nat. One way or another, I'll come home." He murmured, storm cloud eyes meeting glimmering green, and he brushed a chaste kiss over her lips, one last promise that he knew, far too fucking well, he probably wouldn't keep. And she knew it too, because a single, simple tear dropped onto her cheek and his thumb, the one he'd torn open, brushed it away. "You better too."

"I will." He was proud of the steel in her voice, the strength, and he grinned, just a little bit.

"Gotta go, Tasha. Look over Cap for me; he's too good a man for this world."

"Amen to that."

* * *

Sitwell set down on an old airstrip and Clint slipped into the night, thankful that the 'Stang was as well tuned as she was. Sure, he did need to change the oil, and he probably would hack it in a parking lot after he stopped at the local auto parts store, but first, he had a trail to track. It was cold by this point; even as fast as SHIELD could move, Clint knew how his mentor worked, how the man reacted to things, and Trickshot was long gone. Long, long gone. But he sucked at hiding his trails.

Clint smiled grimly as he drove to the last known attack, and hiding his car in a parking garage, he slipped up to the top of the nearest building, his scope out and as he crouched on the rooftop, he scanned all of the surrounding buildings. He had his bow, a compact one, tucked against his chest, and a hidden quiver that looked like a simple side shoulder backpack slung across his shoulders, and he kept them close as he made his way to the edge that looked over the plaza. This would not have been the building he would have picked, and as he looked, he smiled faintly. Neither had his mentor. But there...on the building across the way, he caught a glimpse of...something on the roof. Something that shouldn't be there.

/Gettin' sloppy, old man...gettin' sloppy./ He grinned, sharp and feral, and he pulled out his bow, nocking a grappling arrow and aiming for one of the small stairwell covers on the top. He pressed a kiss to the fletching and let it fly, the line uncoiling as it slammed into the brickwork, and he caught the line, yanking it tight and fastening it to the air conditioner's base. With a flick of his wrist, and a grunt, he flung himself up over the edge and hooked his zip line grip over it, shooting down the line like his arrow just before him. He curled up just as he hit, and landed with ease, his face growing grim as he took in the set up. Clearly the police weren't paying attention to this scene; that, or they hadn't found it yet, and he snapped quick photos with his phone. It was a rifle, and a old one, and judging by the shells, military issue. Which made sense, because the old man had been to 'Nam, and hadn't let Clint or anyone else in the circus forget it.

He pulled out a pair of black latex gloves, easing them on as he knelt next to the rifle. There wasn't too much evidence to pinpoint a shooter, in all honesty; the three shells would match with the three victims below, none of which, thankfully, had died, and if he knew his master, the whole gun would be wiped clean. But the gravel under the rifle's tripod was a little more disturbed than it should be; he must have wiggled it around a little before settling, and Clint very carefully examined it, thankful for the late morning sun just overhead. There...just underneath the right leg, a tiny scrap. He fished out his tweezers, and gently, oh so gently, eased it out of the gravel, holding it up to the light.

It wasn't much, but it was a receipt; the pod was new, and bought local, and with a crooked smile, he slid it into a small baggie and ghosted back to his zipline, loosing the rope. He wouldn't be able to use it to reach the top of the other building, not with the height difference, but that wasn't a problem; he put a hand to the small control pad on his right wrist and the line's clamp released, snaking down between the buildings and he reeled it in expertly. Coiling the line, he looked back over the scene; not much was left, as he'd suspected from the get go, but after he dropped an anonymous call to the Pittsburgh PD, maybe they'd have more clues...

And if not, at least he had what SHIELD had; which, to be fair, was just about everything; he made his way to the stairwell now and pulled up his hood, discarding the gloves in a pocket to be destroyed later. The way down this particular building was a little bit more dodgy than the last one; he actually had to dodge the security cameras and as he slipped into the lobby of the building, he adjusted his gait and the quiver became a simple backpack, his bow folding neatly into it and a pair of earbuds connecting to the smartphone he carried out now, it's normal SHIELD logo changed out for what looked like Pandora...but the voices in his ears now weren't Steely Dan and co. Instead, it was Jasper's quiet assessment of the last three attacks and clues pointing to the next one. He jammed to himself though, humming quietly as he strode out into the streets, scanning the crowds behind red lenses.

So many people, even with the recent attacks, and Clint had to ponder the sanity of Trickshot's choices of targets. These last three, they weren't even connected; a man in his fifties and his pretty, trophy wife of twenty, and a teenager, just doing what Clint was faking now. No connections, no associations, no one who might have even gone to the Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders or any other circus the old man had been a part of. It just didn't make sense, and that wasn't like Chisholm. Fury was entertaining some notion that his former master was following some insane revenge scheme, Hill too, but Clint wasn't sure of that. Couldn't be, really. Because if anyone was on Trickshot's shit list, it was him, and possibly...no, Barney was long gone. Long gone...

He made his way back to the car, unhurried and just a guy out listening to some good jams, which was a great cover, because laughing cops were a hell of a lot easier to get past than suspicious ones, and the three he'd just strolled past as he unsuccessfully started rapping hardly paused a beat before they busted up. He'd grinned at them, waving a little bit, and ducked into the parking garage quickly enough. There, in the soft shadows, he stripped off his jacket and quiver, pocketing his phone and buds and slipped into the car, backing out with a soft purr. First things first; he had a car to fix up. Buck wouldn't strike again tonight; the pattern was saying three to four days, and he estimated that he had two. Two days to find the next location, stake it out, and try and fight his former mentor.

So, first things first, he was gonna eat, and change the damned oil.

* * *

"...Clint, when you said you had a plan..."

"I do have a plan, Sitwell."

"This is not a plan, it's a tactical nightmare."

"It's a better plan than Fury's 'flood the streets with the FBI'."

"...Fine."

"Just trust me. I've got this." And he did. He'd gotten the 'Stang on the road after a quick nap and lunch, and not three hours later, he was pulling into Cleveland, Ohio, and heading up Chester Avenue. All of Clint's instincts pointed to, and the receipt he'd recovered had solidified it, that he was going to strike Erieview Plaza from Terminal Tower. And he was going to do it a day early. Clint had just enough time to set up on the Tower itself, and maybe, just maybe, surprise the old man. Of course, that was assuming that he didn't get killed trying to scale the Tower itself; it was already confirmed that Trickshot had bribed his way to the maintenance hatch that led to the upper portion of the Tower proper, and there was no chance of Clint doing the same; Jasper had already investigated that lead for him.

Surprisingly, Sitwell was happy to help him over the wire; usually when initiating a ghost protocol, even SHIELD decried any responsibility for an agent left afield. But then again, he had a feeling that this was Fury's apology for some of the shit with Phil; that, and the climbing equipment that had been left in his trunk during his nap. So, Clint once more picked out a sturdy parking garage and set to work. He spent a good hour studying the comings and goings of the many people that came and left the enormous building, knowing his mark was doing the exact same thing, and traded out his hoodie and jacket for a respectable looking suit and a briefcase, a long coat over that. He brushed back his hair neatly, and with a quick pass of his electric razor, trimmed up his scruff into a neat goatee and mustache. Add a pair of simple glass lenses and he was set, and with a thin smile, he packed all the gear he'd need into the large case. He had his other gear and thinnest tac suit under the designer linen, and a whole plethora of knives tucked in even the most innocuous of places.

Checking his reflection, he couldn't help the feral grin that crossed his lips; last time Buck had seen him, Clint had been fifteen and a little hellion. He doubted his master would even recognize the boy he'd trained long ago, unless Clint broke his cover...and he had no intention of doing such a foolish thing. He locked up the Mustang and ghosted into the crowd, the pleasant half-smile of a distracted business man floating over his face as he studied his phone before him, eyes flicking up only to make sure that he didn't run into another person or a car. Fifteen minutes later, he was inside the massive old building and heading towards one of the business offices; it didn't matter which one, he just needed a little privacy and a window. Up he went to the law firm near the 32nd floor, however, when he realized that the observation deck was currently open; /that/ would make his job a hell of a lot easier, climbing wise, if he could just disappear...

But one look at the guards counting heads made him scowl softly, and he turned back to the law firm, plastering on a pleasant smile as he opened the door. The secretary looked up, a little harried and he just gave her a friendly wave.

"Hey, sorry, I was looking for Thorman Petrov Griffin, Attorneys at Law?" She brightened a little, nodding.

"That's us! Let me get a new file here...alright, what can we help you with?"

"Well, I've got a bit of an issue with my employer..." He fed her a long, sad story of being gay and having benefits to his significant other be denied, inwardly wincing when the lie spun a little too long. Phil was going to nail his testicles to a board for this, if he ever, ever found out...but hopefully with the fake name and ID, he'd get off at least a little bit. "...And so, I really just want to make sure he's got coverage, that's all, I don't want to be a trouble to my company..." Her smile softened and she gently patted the steno pad, nodding.

"We understand completely; let me call on Mr. Thorman and ask him to meet with you, then we'll get you set up with a case. Thank you for coming to us, Mr. Barrows."

"No, thank you! Should I just wait here?"

"No, no, go ahead and go into that conference room right there; there's coffee and tea available, and just let me know if you need anything to eat, alright?" He gave her a sweet smile and as she bustled off, he slipped into the conference room, sighing with relief. This would work perfectly, and if his timing was right...he grinned as the small flashbang he'd conveniently dropped during his story finally set off, leaving clouds of smoke everywhere and giving him a good five, six minutes of free time. A minute in, he was stripped of the suit and had it jammed in place of the climbing claws and boots he'd pulled on, the case strapped to his back as he started to pry up the window. By the third minute, and the sounds of shouting and distant sirens, he had the window open and was out, closing it with ease before staring up at the tan stone edifice waiting for him to scale it.

He'd stolen a set of the camouflage tac vest and pants, and smiled grimly as they matched up to the soft tan. He covered his darker hair with a light bandanna, and set to work, the sturdy vibranium claws on the toes of his boots and at his fingertips allowing him the ease of climbing nearly completely unencumbered...but as the winds began to pick up, he bit back a curse. He had to be careful...had to be smart. Because it'd be just his luck to get yanked off of the building by a damned gust of wind. Slowly, painfully, he climbed past the observation deck (and wasn't that fun; waiting impatiently for people to be looking in the same damn direction so he could scrabble up the smooth marble), and made it to the maintenance bay at the very top of the Tower...and for once, his luck held; it was empty except for a few hardy pigeons, and he cooed at one as he began to set up his nest in the lee of one of the great pillars on the outside.

It wouldn't be the most comfortable perch, but it was a sight better than some of the ones he'd been in over the years, and the company was pleasant, if messy and a bit annoying. And best of all, unless you climbed out between the pillars, you'd never know he was there. Not even if a helicopter came up close; he had a special little trick to keep him safe and warm in that instance, and so he settled down to play the waiting game, dozing lightly. It wouldn't be enough to really recharge his batteries, but it was a sight better than no sleep at all, and if he was lucky, Trickshot would be here soon. He sat back and drew his camouflage blanket over his knees, closing his eyes and crossing his arms, letting out a deep breath. Time to rest...and remember.


End file.
